


Guardian Knight

by pilindiel



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Awkward Flirting, Barista Jean Kirstein, Hero Marco Bott, M/M, Marco is a dork, POV Marco Bott
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-14 08:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11204526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilindiel/pseuds/pilindiel
Summary: Tonight will be his debut in Trost and he doesn't want to mess it up.  He's been coming to this cafe as his hub for the last month and a half and though the staff is welcoming and fun, (Jean and the crew have taken the opportunity to write stupid nicknames on his cup a week after he started coming here, and Jean insisted it was just something that happened with all regulars even though he couldn't look Marco in the eye when he said it,) he still feels nervous.( The prompt I got was barista!Jean and hero!Marco are friends with benefits so...Enjoy!)





	Guardian Knight

Everyday after work Marco comes in for the same reason.  He orders the same drink, gives the cashier the same smile, feels that same rush of heat crawl up his neck when the sharp-featured barista ducks his head, and Marco sits in the same booth in the corner, finding comfort in the stickiness of the familiar leather upholstery.

The corner of 15th and Holbrook is where this cafe is nestled.  The walls are paneled with dark wood and the lights are dim, casting everything in a warm, orange light.  It's also quiet, which is exactly what Marco needs.

Marco moved to Trost a few weeks ago for his new development coordinator position at Survey Publishing and though it's not the most glamorous work, it's better than being stuck in his hometown.  Better than the stares and the whispers.

Trost is a nicer town, a busier town, and there are less eyes on him and less rumors.  He couldn't help people in Sina – too busy being worried about his reputation.  Too worried about his secret.

Marco sighs and cards his gloved fingers through his hair, breathing in the sweet, soothing smell of caramel wafting up from his latte.  It's been a long day, and he has a feeling it's going to be an even longer night.  It's that sinking, churning feeling in his stomach that makes his hands tingle, makes it harder for him to concentrate on the warm, frothy drink before him.

He must look pretty intense, because when he looks up he sees the closing shift manager, Jean, staring at him from over the syrup shrouds between two hulking espresso bean hoppers, his amber eyes narrowed.  A random customer walking in may think Jean is glaring at him, but Marco knows better: Jean may look all sharp-edged and cocky, but over the weeks Marco has noticed Jean's keen, observant eyes, has heard the bark of his laughter and the fierceness of his smile.  Sure, he has a short temper, it's obvious how it simmers on the surface this late at night, but Marco can see his softness, can see the gentle concern he has for all those around him.

Marco gives him a small, forced smile, but Jean is clearly not convinced, judging by the frown that deepens the lines on his young face.

Marco sighs, dropping his head to the table.  There's no one else in the store aside from Jean's closer, Reiner – a blond man with blond, military-cut hair and a loud smile – and the early summer air outside is warm and inviting.  No one wants coffee this late on such a calming evening except Marco, who hopes the extra shot will keep him awake long enough for the rest of his night.

His backpack leans heavily against his calf under the table and Marco scrutinizes his latte a little more ruefully.  The dark, hooded costume inside shouldn't make him feel as nervous as it does, but he can't stop the way a lump builds in his throat and he hastily pushes his black rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose.

Tonight will be his debut in Trost and he doesn't want to mess it up.  He's been coming to this cafe as his hub for the last month and a half and though the staff is welcoming and fun, (Jean and the crew have taken the opportunity to write stupid nicknames on his cup a week after he started coming here, and Jean insisted it was just something that happened with all regulars even though he couldn't look Marco in the eye when he said it,) he still feels nervous.

His, ahem, _**nightly activities**_ are going to be pretty freaking _**active**_ and he'll need the extra jolt of energy from his drink if he plans to stay out this late without practice.

“You okay?”

Marco nearly jumps out of his booth at the sudden voice and his heart leaps into his throat.  

Jean stands beside his table, the yellow length of an old broom held tightly in his hands, and Marco chokes out a laugh that sounds fake to both of them.  Marco can't stop the flush that burns his neck when he notices the concern in Jean's eyes and immediately tries to shake it off.

“Sorry,” Marco mutters, running a gloved hand through his hair again, “I guess I'm a little out of it tonight.”  Marco cocks his head to the side and smiles though, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.  “Thank you for worrying.”

Jean shifts awkwardly, his gaze flitting between the pile of dust at his feet and the freckles along the bridge of Marco's nose and Marco's chest warms comfortably.  He looks like he wants to say something, Marco can see it swelling in his chest and the way Jean nervously picks at the fraying plastic of the broom handle.  There's something terribly endearing about Jean's terrible undercut and the blush Marco can clearly see dusting Jean's cheeks.  He doesn't understand why someone who exudes so much confidence running a shift can be so flustered talking to a customer, but it's...Cute.  Flattering, even.  Marco tries not to read too much into that.

“Yeah, well...” Jean trails off, scratching his cheek, “Just don't pass out in the booth or I'll spray you with bathroom cleaner.”

Marco chuckles amicably and curls his fingers around his – now lukewarm – coffee.  “Why?” he teases, “Am I _**dirty**_?”

The flush to Jean's cheeks deepens to a lovely shade of red but his smile is biting, taunting.  “If you stay here long enough, you might be.”   Marco's stomach flips.

“Is that a promise?” Marco murmurs. Jean's eyes widen and he splutters for a moment before finding intense fascination with Marco's gloves – black leather with red cuffs – as his ears turn a lovely maroon.  Marco's heart flutters in his chest the more he watches Jean react.  He hasn't had this much fun flirting in _**ages.**_ Slowly, Marco drags his teeth over his lower lip to try to stop the spread of his smile.  

He catches Jean tracing the movement with his eyes.

Absently, Jean clears his throat and turns.  “Well, we close in ten minutes, so get out before I have Reiner manhandle you,” he grumbles, retreating back to the counter and abandoning the pile of dirt and grime he accumulated in his sweep.  Reiner winks from over the counter, though Marco isn't sure if it's directed at him or Jean.  Jean just sinks further into his apron.

As much as Marco would love to stay, he has work to do, and he drains the last cold drops of his drink before tossing the cardboard away and stepping out into the night, his bag slung heavily over his shoulder.

Marco sincerely hopes things will run smoothly tonight – he doesn't want another Sina incident.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It's around ten when Marco finds himself racing through the city streets, police wave radio clipped to his hip.  The cylindrical aluminum pipe in his hands isn't as heavy as it used to be, and he thanks his lucky stars he still decided to work out in his downtime.  It keeps his muscles taut.  His stamina high.

His body ready for a fight.

The scarf around his neck makes it easy for him to cover his nose and mouth from prying eyes, and on a night like tonight he's eternally grateful for the early spring twilight – the cold still lingers in the air and on the edge of the wind – and it makes his costume choice feel far more practical.  The blue leather hood covering his messy hair is welcomed too; the shadow it casts over his eyes and forehead should shroud most of his familiar freckles and keep his identity the way he wants it.  

 _ **Secret**_.

The only thing that's the same are his gloves – the black leather and red cuffs aren't just a fashion statement.  Usually, Marco can keep his empathic powers under control, but he needs to _**keep**_ them under control.  It takes a conceited amount of energy to shake someone's hand without the gloves on and not accidentally figure out what someone's last wank session was to.

The crackle of the radio breaks through his introspection and Marco pauses his jog, skidding to a stop in his boots.  His Bluetooth earpiece whines about a possible disturbance on the corner of 15th and Holbrook and Marco's heart catches.

His feet are moving before the dispatch finishes and the tingling in his fingers increases to an almost static as he leaps onto the nearest rooftop, racing along the concrete and slate.

The closer he gets the louder he can hear voices and he crouches in the shadows just outside a lamppost to get a better vantage point.

The air rushes out of Marco's lungs in a rush when he sees Jean.  He's out of his uniform now, messenger bag over his shoulder.  His knuckles are white with how tightly he's holding it to his chest and his back is against the faded and deteriorating brick.

Something feral and protective swells in his chest and Marco just barely manages to stop himself from launching off the roof; situation be dammed.

Jean's annoyed, panicked shout is enough to bring him back to earth.  

“I told you I don't _**have**_ any fucking cash!” he spits.  There's another man, clad in black with a hunter's knife in his large hand.  He's at least twice Jean's size and the knife glitters menacing in the low light as Jean continues to protest.

“Come on, man,” he pleads, voice shaking, “I j-just got off of work, okay?  We...we don't _**get**_ tips until Monday and I left my wallet at home – ”

“Don't lie to me!” the stranger growls.  Jean flinches, slipping down the wall unto his butt, and the stranger takes a step forward.

Marco jumps down between them, swinging the aluminum pipe idly in his hand as he lands.

“Now now,” Marco chides, dropping his voice as low and deep as it can get, “Is that anyway to treat your neighbor?”

Both Jean and his robber seem a combination of perplexed and shocked, and that's exactly what Marco is counting on.

The fight is not long, if you can call it a fight.

Marco's black combat boots skid against the pavement and, with a flourish, he smacks the would-be robber off his feet with a deafening clang to the back of his knees.

It's not enough to incapacitate him, but he's going to be bruised for a few days.

In seconds the robber crumbles, whining pitifully, and Marco crouches down to look him in the eyes.  “If money is what you need,” he says, pulling out an index card from his belt, “I have compiled a list of places that are currently hiring in the area.  Most of these do not require previous work experience and the ones highlighted in purple also hire people with previous criminal records, so long as they aren't too heinous of a crime.”

The robber takes the index card with shaking hands, staring at the blue and black hooded man before him in bewilderment.

“Thank you?” he hazards.

Marco smiles behind his scarf.  “Just don't let me catch you trying to rob anyone again.”

Pivoting on his heel as the robber crawls off, Marco turns to Jean and feels his heart flutter again. Jean's opted for an obscure band t-shirt that hangs loosely around his lithe frame and skinny jeans that hug his long legs.  He seems less scared now and more confused and Marco has to remind himself not to ogle someone who's life was just threatened.

“Are you alright?” Marco asks, extending a hand.  Jean glances at it, his nose scrunching.  Marco wiggles his fingers invitingly, eyes sparkling under his hood, and Jean sighs, shaking his head.

“Who are you?” Jean counters, taking Marco's hand and letting himself be hauled up.  Marco tries not to focus on how Jean's hand lingers a moment before letting go.

“I'm new in town,” Marco muses, lugging his pipe over his shoulder casually.

Jean snorts.  “Obviously.”  He crosses his arms over his chest and gives Marco a scrutinizing look. “Does my knight in shining armour have a name?”

“You can call me _**The Guardian**_ , if you'd like,” Marco hums.  He leans forward and gives Jean a wink. “Though, I'd be honoured to be your knight.”

Even in the dark, Marco can see the flush of red that burns across Jean's cheeks at that and blinks at Marco owlishly, tightening the grip on his bag before hastily looking away.

“Yeah well, I better get home,” he mutters.  Marco can't help himself – there's something about Jean that makes him infinitely interested in whatever reaction he can pull out of him.

“Do you need me to escort you to your place?” Marco offers.

Jean's ears burn red but he laughs; that beautiful, barking sound Marco is so used to that it makes his chest warm.

“Nah,” Jean says, waving him off as he begins towards his apartment, “I think you've done enough chivalrous acts for one night.”

“Until later, then.”  Marco smiles wide and toothy behind his scarf and takes a moment to admire Jean stalk off before he hops onto the rooftop, clicking the radio scanner back on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Marco feels like shit the next morning.  The rest of the night was uneventful, but it was _**long**_.  Trost is a much busier, much livelier city than Sina and Marco's whole body aches from running and jumping around so much.

His hands hurt too, but that's common by now.

After work he finds himself being pulled to the cafe again and he can't even muster enough energy to give Sasha – a bouncy brunette with an endless smile and Jean's other closer for the night – his drink correctly. She babbles on about something that she insists is _**terribly important**_ as Jean makes his drink in silence, refusing to meet Marco's eye.

Did he really embarrass him that badly yesterday?  Is he still frazzled from the almost-mugging?  Marco's not sure, but it makes an uncomfortable heaviness sit in his chest all the same.

He's halfway through his latte when he notices the telltale black of permanent marker and slides down the sleeve to get a better look.

A phone number, written in Jean's scratchy handwriting, is etched on the side of the cup and below that is another nickname, but this one is much different from the others. Marco flushes and ducks his head, unable to bite back his smile as he reads it.

“My knight”.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you BELIEVE how on TIME I am with this  
> Like BARELY an hour late  
> What a pro
> 
> Also:  
> I love me some Superhero!Marco. In case you weren't aware, being an empath is like having Professor X/Rogue powers combined? At least in this AU. Basically Marco can read people's minds and feelings if he touches them.
> 
> Also both our boys are bad at flirting.


End file.
